


The Italian Way

by thehoneyglow (prettydamnlame)



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-15 16:08:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13034679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettydamnlame/pseuds/thehoneyglow
Summary: Luca Changretta makes the acquaintance of an enchanting English Italian seamstress in the aftermath of his latest shoot out with the Shelbys.





	1. Chapter 1

Luca Changretta clicked his tongue angrily and cursed under his breath.

The tall, hawkish Italian-American sat in a high-backed chair behind the leather-topped desk in his hotel suite. He was examining the suit jacket he had been wearing earlier that day: there were several pulled threads in its immaculate pinstripe.

The mobster's latest run-in with the Shelbys had ended in a mad dash back to the automobile and he had apparently been sufficiently panicked enough to distress the stitching of his finest Italian suit.

Changretta looked up and barked at Matteo, his second, who was hovering dutifully by the door of his suite. "I need a seamstress."

"Alright, boss." He turned to go, before Changretta spoke again, an authoritative finger pointed at the other, thin tattoos peeking out of the white shirt sleeve cuffed up at his elbows.

"An Italian seamstress, mind. I don't want one of these fuckin' English seamstresses puttin' their ham hands all over my gear."

"We're in England, boss… " Matteo began hesitantly, attempting to point out the problem they were going to encounter if they needed to find a specifically Italian seamstress.

Changretta let out another Italian curse and slammed his hand on the desk forcefully in time with the next words he spoke. "Italian. Seamstress."

The other Italian American man tipped his hat hurriedly and disappeared out the door without further protest.

* * *

 

Later that day, Matteo, having (blessedly) successfully located an Italian seamstress, parked their automobile on the side of the street neatly and led Changretta at a smart pace down the sidewalk.

"Family?" Changretta asked, the usual lone toothpick rolling around the corner of his mouth artfully.

"Immigrants," Matteo replied as they walked, gripping the jacket that needed work tightly in his left hand. "Mangiameli, from Turin. Father runs a deli with his son, and the daughter, Talia, is a seamstress on the second floor with her mother's help. Just here."

Matteo raised a hand and pointed toward a storefront that was all windows, with the name 'Mangiameli's' printed above the door proudly.

* * *

 

After being directed upstairs by the senior shopkeep, Anthony Mangiameli, the pair of men came to a landing with one door open and one door closed. Through the open door, the Italian American men could see an elderly woman in a chair in the furthest corner beside a lit fireplace.

Pocketing the toothpick, stepping forward and rapping smartly on the doorframe, Luca Changretta announced himself by clearing his throat loudly.

Promptly, a petite brunette woman with dark brown eyes and a slightly startled expression appeared on the other side of the doorframe. She was wearing a cream day dress with the sleeves pushed up messily to her elbows, and Luca was amused to see there were no shoes on her feet.

"Good afternoon, miss. My name is Luca Changretta." He touched his hat genially before offering her his hand. "This is my associate, Matteo. He's recommended you to me after some discussion with your father downstairs."

"I'm Talia Mangiameli." The young woman said levelly as she shook Changretta's hand, then Matteo's. "And this is my mother, Josephine." She indicated the elderly woman by the fireplace.

"We have company, Talia Maree, put your slippers on." The woman's mother chided her daughter reproachfully from where she sat, casting a curious eye across the two strangers but said nothing when both men tipped their hats in her direction.

The younger woman rushed to the other side of the room and put a worn pair of slippers on hurriedly. Luca found himself unable to look away from the English Italian woman whose entire appearance had struck him with a strong sense of the ethereal.

Talia then waved the pair of men over to a large work desk that ran the entire length of the far wall. It was laden with reams of material and reels of thread, with the main piece of equipment being a huge, old-fashioned overlocker.

"What can I help you with, Mr Changretta?" Talia stood dutifully next to a rack full of tagged clothing items currently in her care.

As Matteo began to explain his boss' request, Luca abruptly snatched the jacket out of his associate's hands, intent on drawing Talia's attention back to himself.

"I've pulled some lines in my suit jacket," Luca explained succinctly, moving forward and closing the space between himself and Talia with three paces. "Y'see?" He drawled, taking the opportunity to lean quite close to her under the pretence of showing her his damaged jacket.

"Let me take a look under some better light," Talia offered, outwardly completely unruffled by Changretta's imposing nature. The brunette took the jacket from the man swiftly, allowing her arm to brush against his for a second before turning away.

Luca watched the woman closely as she turned on the bright light positioned above the overlocker and turned her gaze to the stitching of his jacket. "It _has_ been pulled." She remarked quietly, running a pair of gentle fingers over the material. "I can certainly re-cast this for you, Mr Changretta, but it may take me a couple of days to source the right thread."

"I only want _Italian_ thread." He intoned imperiously from where he still stood, hands positioned in front of him just so that his tattoos were on full display.

Talia had been attempting to keep her glances at Changretta fleeting, but his tattoos made it difficult for her to look away: they trailed out of his sleeves and onto his hands, and there was a large, ornate cross on the side of his neck. All this, coupled with the man's tall, domineering aura, hawkish face and beetle-black eyes, made the woman's skin crawl with something that she hadn't felt in a long time.

"I _only_ use Italian thread." The seamstress countered coolly, head angling just the slightest amount from indignation. If he was expecting her to do a bad job on his suit jacket, she would prove him very, very wrong.

" _Grazie_ , Miss Mangiameli. I look forward to callin' in again by the end of the week." Luca Changretta's beetle-black gaze was unwavering and slightly intoxicating, and Talia could only stare as he tipped his hat at her slowly, and then her mother, before exiting with Matteo close on his heels.

* * *

 

"He's handsome." Josephine Mangiameli commented as soon as Mr Changretta and his associate had left the room.

" _Mama_ …" Talia remarked exasperatedly, still holding the sudden visitor's jacket in her hands. She turned away from her mother in an effort to hide how flustered Luca Changretta had left her. "You say that about every Italian man you see."

The older Mangiameli woman shrugged, unashamed at her desire to find her only daughter a good match: Talia was 26, and already widowed because of the War. It was time she married again.

"It doesn't matter how handsome he is," the younger woman said with a smile as she hung the jacket carefully on a hanger. "It only matters how good his money is. Isn't that right, Da?" Talia asked of her father as he entered the room completely unannounced.

"That's absolutely right, my darling," Anthony Mangiameli agreed, strolling over to the warmest corner of the room to rest his hands placatingly on his wife's shoulders. "Michael's with them now in the deli. Sounds like they've been missing real Italian food."


	2. Chapter 2

[Any text in **(bold)** are translations]

* * *

 

Wednesday was wet and dreary, and by Thursday, the whole city was being lashed by intermittent but powerful thunderstorms.

Talia Mangiameli had fled her family’s deli earlier that morning after a nasty argument with her brother, Michael, over who would go to the pharmacy to fetch their mother’s prescription. Infuriated by her younger brother’s behaviour, the petite woman had left wearing just her boots and an eggshell blue dress for cover against the turbulent weather.

* * *

 

Luca Changretta pitched forward in the backseat of the automobile like he’d been given an electric shock. “Pull over.”

Matteo glanced incredulously at his boss from where he sat in the driver’s seat.

“ _Pull over_!”

As soon as the car had pulled up to the curb, the tall Italian American threw open the door and rushed out onto the sidewalk. A startled brunette woman in an eggshell blue dress, completely soaked by rain, stopped in her rush up the street at the sound of someone calling her name.

“Talia, it’s Luca Changretta, we met - ”

With Changretta looking at her expectantly and gesturing toward the car, Talia declared despite the violent weather: “I recall who you are, Mr Changretta, but I’m also not  _stupid_. I don’t get into the cars of men that I’ve met once in passing.”

“ _Mio Dio_ **(My God)** … ” the black-haired man said, frustrated, before reaching deep into his suit jacket and pulling out a switchblade from the inner lining. This was an item he kept on his person at all times, just in case; he definitely never thought he’d have to offer it to a woman to protect themselves against him.

Prostrating the small weapon to the woman standing in front of him, who was obviously soaked through to the bone, he growled: “ _Here_. Now will you  _please_  get in the car?”

Fingertips shaking from the cold, Talia took the small blade gingerly, shocked more than anything, that she had just been offered a  _real_  weapon to defend herself. The rain-drenched brunette then let herself be bundled into the backseat of Changretta’s car, who slid in after her and pulled the door shut with a slam.

“Miss Mangiameli.” Matteo greeted her as he started the car’s engine once more and peeled away from the curb.

“Matteo.” Talia had time to reply cordially, before she was cut off by Changretta, who had begun pulling the long overcoat he had discarded at the beginning of the car journey around her tightly.

“What were you  _doin_ ’ out there?” The tall man demanded, American drawl slurring the words a little.

Comforted by the weight of the small blade in her palm, the brunette relaxed back into the seat and relished in the warmth of the dry coat around her. Changretta sat beside her, beetle-black eyes fixed on her unrelentingly, obviously expecting an answer.

Feeling strong for the first time that day since Michael had yelled at her, Talia replied with just the slightest waver to her voice: “It’s a long story, Mr Changretta.”

“That’s  _my_  blade you’re carrying, Talia, y’can at least call me Luca.” The Italian American man leaned his head back against the car window, stretching the tattooed cross on his neck. “An’ no rush with the long story. We’ve got time.”

“Michael and I had an argument about who was going to get Mama’s prescription… ” Talia began after a few moments of silence.

“Your brother, Michael?”

The brunette nodded,  _yes_.

“I have a lot of pieces that need to be finished before the end of the week. Michael said it was my responsibility to get the prescription even if I was busy because I’m the daughter, I didn’t need to work and it was only because Da is  _soft_  that I’m allowed to at all.”

Luca made a deep clicking noise with his tongue from where he sat, indicating his displeasure, and waited for the seamstress to continue.

“I told him what I thought of that, and – ”

Leaning forward at this, Changretta muttered conspiratorially to the woman beside him: “I want to hear what  _you_  thought of that, Talia.”

Blushing deeply, Talia murmured: “ _Vafuncolo_ ,  _cos’altro_ **(Get fucked, what else)**?”

Luca grinned at her; a wild, wolfish grin, that made Talia’s heart pound, and she couldn’t stop herself from smiling back at him.

“ _Bene_ **(good)**.” He declared loudly, leaning back into his seat now, visibly pleased.

Still blushing, Talia went on: “He went on and on about how he’s the only son, he’s 21 and engaged, soon he’ll be providing for all of us, and it isn’t fair to make him do it when he’s supposed to be running the deli.”

“Doesn’t your father run the deli?” Luca pointed out, raising his eyebrows.

“He does, Michael’s just… ” The brunette rolled her eyes and let out an exasperated sigh.

“ _Un idiota_ **(an idiot)**?”

“ _Si_ **(yes)**.” 

For Talia, it felt so good to verbalise how much her brother’s behaviour frustrated her. She barely even felt the cold anymore, and was increasingly aware that was probably more to do with Luca’s company than anything else.

* * *

 

“Talia, who’s that?” Her brother demanded when Talia entered the storefront ten minutes later, Changretta trailing dutifully behind her. The Italian American man had chosen to accompany her under the guise of collecting his suit jacket, however he also had another reason brewing in mind.

Still wearing Luca’s overcoat, Talia completely ignored her brother and walked through the deli toward the stairs that led to the upper floors.

“ _Talia_  - !” Michael called out again loudly, abandoning the deli counter altogether and marching after his sister.

Luca intervened swiftly, stepping around Talia from where he had been behind her, blocking her brother’s view of his sister altogether.

“Talia, take that prescription upstairs to your Mama,” the Italian American man said calmly, having witnessed the slight tensing of the woman's shoulders at her brother’s raised voice. “I’ll be up shortly to pay for my jacket… just let me talk to your brother first.”

Talia nodded and departed up the stairs two at a time, Changretta’s long overcoat flapping around her as she did so.

“Who are  _you_?” Michael Mangiameli demanded brazenly of the man who turned around to face him.

“Luca Changretta, a client of your sister’s,” Luca said easily, raising one hand to scratch the back of his neck effortlessly casually.

Changretta stood at least a foot taller then Michael, and had no qualm with using that height to his advantage to do a little intimidating. “Now, lis’sen, Michael, I know what havin’ a sister is like, got three of ’em myself.” Changretta found a toothpick in the pocket of his suit jacket and popped it easily into the corner of his mouth. “And I’ll tell you somethin’ for free. You don’t gotta worry about Talia, she’s a good Italian girl.”

Manoeuvring the toothpick between his teeth, Changretta smirked as he added: “But what you  _do_  gotta worry about is the bastard who’s gonna take her off your hands one day, because he’s not gonna like  _you_.”

Michael’s upper lip curled with extreme distaste at this arrogant foreigner. Maliciousness dripped from every syllable as the youngest Mangiameli declared: “I’ll tell  _you_  something for free, Changretta. My father is never going to allow Talia to spend so much as one evening with an American, so  _back off_.”

“We’ll see,” Changretta replied nonchalantly. “Either way,  _this_  American is  _definitely_  taking your sister out dancing tomorrow night.”

The black-haired man leaned back on the balls of his feet, the corners of his mouth curling into another smug smile, toothpick presenting jauntily. “An’ if I hear any misgivings about it from  _you_ , Michael, I’ll be sharing with your dear father just how poorly you treat Talia when he’s not within earshot.  _Capisce_ **(Understand)**?”

Realising sourly that he had just been outsmarted, Michael Mangiameli gave Changretta the most withering glare he could muster before turning away, tight-lipped, and returning to the deli counter.

The initial rush of victory Luca Changretta had felt at putting Talia’s manipulative brother back in his place quickly began to fade as he ascended the stairs.

The man realised he had just declared his intention to take Talia out the following evening, only there was one thing standing in his way:  _he hadn’t actually asked her yet_.


	3. Chapter 3

Having successfully delivered the filled prescription to her father, Talia paused on the landing and let out a long, shaky breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding in. The woman pulled the door that led to the Mangiameli’s family quarters closed behind her and entered the workroom through the door adjacent.

The brunette woman knelt to stoke the smouldering flames in the corner fireplace. With a little encouragement, the flames began to merrily lick upwards and Talia sank to the floor in front of it, holding her hands out to the growing warmth. 

* * *

 

Luca Changretta loped into the workroom to find Talia sitting cross-legged in front of a crackling fireplace. His overcoat was hung tidily on the back of the noticeably empty chair. “Your mama is still not well then, Talia?”

Looking up from where she sat on the floor, the woman’s lips twitched downward into a frown. “She’s been abed all day. Da is hoping the prescription will help some.”

The Italian American moved across the room and offered Talia a strong hand as she began to stand up, which she accepted gratefully.

“ _Mi dispiace_ **(I’m sorry)**.” Luca squeezed her hand for a moment before letting go.

“Let me show you your jacket.” The seamstress said; as always, a little flustered by even the simplest of gestures from Changretta.

Talia took the mended suit jacket from the rack of tagged items by the workbench and waved the American over, gesturing for him to stand in front of the full-length mirror propped up against the wall.

“Jacket – off.” She ordered, pointing an authoritative finger at the suit jacket he currently wore.

Complying with an amused smirk, black-haired man shrugged off his jacket and tossed it onto the workbench easily.

Standing behind him and taking a self-indulgent moment to quietly admire his taut, lean physique, Talia held out the jacket for him to slide his arms into. Once he had done so, she stepped around him, eyes narrowed with the honed precision of a master seamstress.

“For all we’ve discussed today, Luca, you haven’t yet told me what it is you’re doing in England.” Talia remarked with a tilt of her head that, coupled with her wide brown eyes flicking up to meet his, gave the woman a slightly owlish look.

“I’m here on family business, Talia. Why else do Italians travel?” He replied dismissively.

Talia circled him again, slower this time, and Luca couldn't deny that he enjoyed the closeness.

Tugging at different edges of the jacket with a professional sharpness, the young woman was not deterred. “And what line of business is the Changretta family in, exactly?”

“Imports an’ exports, mainly.” This response was just as evasive as the first.

Talia looked into the mirror as well now, exasperated. Luca’s expression reflected back at her completely impassively, and she knew that she’d get nothing out of him no matter how hard she tried unless _he_ wanted to divulge it.

The pair stared at each other in the mirror for another tense moment before Talia was struck with the sudden realisation that Luca always seemed to be watching her. It was beginning to give her a distinct feeling of being hunted.

Finally looking away, Talia remarked brusquely: “You’ve learnt a lot about me today, Luca. I just want to know a little about you.”

The man’s dark gaze held hers again and Talia’s feeling of being an animal of prey returned.

“Well, what about tomorrow night?”

“Tomorrow night?” Talia repeated, confused.

Nodding smoothly, Changretta drawled in his confident American way: “Yeah, tomorrow night. Thought I might take you out for dinner an’ dancin’?”

Swallowing down her own sudden breathlessness, the brunette surprised herself when she got out the affirmative answer: “Sure.”

“Y’might even learn a little ’bout me... ”

Before Talia had time to react, Luca had hooked a finger beneath her chin and leaned in close, breath hot on the side of her face for a moment before brushing his lips against her cheek. When he leaned away again, he murmured: “ _Scusami_ **(forgive me)**.”

Talia shook her head wordlessly, indicating there was nothing to forgive. Her heart was pounding so loudly she was surprised the American couldn't hear it, considering how close they were standing.

Luca reached into his trouser pocket then, pulling out a crisp money clip. Pressing a handful of notes into the seamstress’ hand, he intoned: “ _Grazie_. _A domani_ **(Thankyou. Until tomorrow)**.”

“ _A domani_.” She repeated back to him, certain she was by now sounding like a witless parrot.

Leaning closer once more, Changretta added in a stage whisper: “I’ll send the car to pick you up around 7.” He stepped away then, all smirks and smiles, picking up his overcoat and spare suit jacket to go. With one last nod, Changretta exited the room and Talia was left alone with the knowledge that this man she still barely knew was taking her out the very next evening.

* * *

 

Luca Changretta slid into the backseat of the car that had kept idling out the front of the deli since he had entered it half an hour earlier.

The black-haired man caught Matteo’s glare in the rear view mirror as the other snarled: “ _Sei ridicolo_ **(You’re ridiculous)**. She’s a distraction and a liability.”

Changretta shot forward and, reaching one arm over the driver’s seat, wrapped his strong, tattooed hand around Matteo’s neck, squeezing sharply. “Please, tell me again how _fuckin_ ’ ridiculous I am.”

Matteo struggled and writhed under Changretta’s iron grip, to no avail.

“You know the terms Shelby and I agreed to.” _No children, no civilians, no police_. Something hot was coursing through Luca and it had nothing to do with the temperature inside the vehicle.

“That poor girl’s not just a civilian anymore, is she, Luca?” Matteo spat out accusingly, having been released with a violent shove just moments before. “If you think the Shelbys won’t take advantage of that minor detail, you an’ me haven’t been dealing with same lunatic family for the past few months.”

Letting out a string of vehement Italian curses, Changretta ordered barkishly: “Fuckin’ drive already!” The man fell back into his seat as the car peeled away from the curb with a roar.


	4. Chapter 4

Talia was wearing the same deep-red silk gown she had worn to her brother's engagement party six months earlier. Her brown hair was pulled into a sleek, classic bun at the nape of her neck and classic pearls gifted to her by her Turinese grandparents glinted on her wrists and neck and strappy black dancing heels on her feet.

As the car slowed to a halt at the curb, the woman leaned forward to glance out the window and her stomach gave a pleasant lurch of surprise. Outside was the grand façade of the Baglioni, one of the most upscale and oldest Italian establishments in the city. Talia was swamped with a feeling of relief that she would be meeting Luca Changretta, a man who was still very much a mystery to her, in such a familiar place.

The woman had no time to dwell on that train of thought any longer as the vehicle side door was opened and Changretta offered her his arm. She allowed herself to be helped out of the chauffeured automobile the American had sent to pick her up and was greeted by the usual silhouette of a tall, hawkish, well-dressed man with half a smirk and coal black eyes.

Stepping back half a pace, Luca looked the seamstress up and down appreciatively and let out a long, low hum of approval. "You look beautiful, Talia."

"Thankyou." There was an immediate prickling heat of a blush spreading across her cheeks.

The American wasted no time in tucking her arm through his and leading her inside the brightly lit establishment. "The music here is not so good as it is in New York, but we'll make do, won't we?"

* * *

 

"Ms. Mangiameli, _benvenuto_ **(welcome)**!" A uniformed doorman inclined his head with a familial smile for the brunette woman as she and Changretta entered the Baglioni's grand foyer.

"I've been here before."

Changretta merely raised his eyebrows in reply at Talia's statement.

He had guessed as much: it was one of the reasons why he'd decided to bring her here. He knew he was still vaguely intimidating to her, and that by taking her out at all he was putting the seamstress in considerable danger. The American man's solution to both problems had been to take her somewhere familiar and filled with Italians only, thus greatly reducing the chances of the Shelbys having eyes anywhere within the establishment.

The woman's deep brown eyes were trained on the ceilings vintage frescos that surrounded groups of fine old Parisian chandeliers. "This is where us Italians have… well, everything. Birthdays, engagements, weddings. I've been here more times then I can count."

Changetta squeezed the arm of hers still in his and prompted: "Well, seein' as you're the regular then, Talia, I'll leave our next move up t'you."

"Oh, the main lounge is great!" The woman began brightly, raising her free arm that wasn't tucked into Changretta's toward an open glass door quite close to where the pair were standing. "It's open and you can see right out onto the street."

Luca's hawk-like gaze followed his date's arm as she moved direction, now pointing toward the far end of the lobby, where huge double doors stood wide open and the faint sound of big band music could be heard. "The dining room is adjacent to the dancefloor through there. It's called a dining room, but it's more like a club... tables and booths everywhere." She grinned as the American's face split into his usual wolfish smirk.

Talia found herself being pulled along in Changretta's wake as he led the way and commanded the dining room attendant find them a booth immediately.

* * *

 

"Talia, I need you t'be honest." Luca angled his head toward Talia's as the pair sat comfortably in their booth together after yet another spate of dancing. "Are you enjoying being here with me?"

The woman looked at him, her brown eyes wide. She was slightly sweaty and her fingers were trembling a little with leftover adrenaline as she held a fresh glass of champagne. There were already two half-empty bottles on the table.

"I can't get a read on you," the man continued, his American drawl sounding oddly husky, like he was in confession. The thought of what a man like this said in the confessional made Talia shiver. "Besides bein' absolutely stunnin', you don't give much away, y'know, Talia. An' most people, when they see me, well… they run in the opposite direction." The grin he gave her then was charming but strangely mournful.

"Well, I'm here, aren't I?" She replied boldly, not taking her eyes off his. She was glad the dim lighting in masked just how deeply she was blushing at the compliment he had paid her.

"I saw this… " the woman pulled her right hand out of Changretta's left and pressed a finger lightly to the tattoo on his neck. "And these… " She rubbed a thumb across the tattooing that spilled out of his sleeve before gripping his hand again tightly. "I said _yes_ , Luca."

The brunette shook her head a little, as if to get the thought out of her mind and onto her tongue: "You don't scare me."

Turning his whole body to hers in the darkness of the booth, he placed his free hand about her waist, squeezing for a second. It was a warning. "I should. You don't know what I am."

Talia scoffed, feigning nonchalance at Changretta's grip on her body. Between the big band music, the champagne and the dim lighting, she was ready. For what exactly, she wasn't sure.

" _Si, non mi conosci, ed io nonconosco te. Ma_ … **(Yes, I don't know you, and you don't know me. But…)** I know you pay your debts. I know you're kind to me. I know you're Italian. What else is there?"

"A lot," Luca muttered thickly, looking away. "A whole fuckin' lot."

"Luca… _se vuoi parlare, ti ascolto_ **(if you want to talk, I'm listening)**." Talia raised her hand to touch the side of his face gently and drew it back to hers.

The woman's fingertips brushed against Changretta's lips softly and then he was leaning down, leaving no more space between the two.

His lips were on hers, and her free hand settled around the back of his neck.

Talia was dimly aware that with this closeness came a whole host of new sensations, including the distinct smell of smoke and liquor and Italian musk, and the sheer heat of Luca's body against hers seemed to spike her own temperature by a hundred degrees and made her head swim dizzily.

Changretta's hands were holding onto her waist possessively as they kissed each other deeply and slowly, with no impatience or frenzy to it at all, like this was always going to happen, and they were always going to be here.

The two were interrupted a moment later by a purposefully loud waiter collecting the empty bottles of champagne. The waiter spared the pair a disparaging look, to which Talia, newly emboldened, stared blatantly back in return.

Luca, however, slightly disheveled but still incredibly authoritative, reached into his suit and took another swathe of notes from his money clip. " _Altri due non aperto, per favour_ **(Two more unopened, please)**."

The waiter nodded stiffly and held out his hand for the crisp bills, but instead, Changretta slammed the money down on the table in front of him and added venomously: " _Fai tuo lavoro e vafuncolo, uh_ **(Do your job and fuck off, uh)**?"

The waiter swiped up the money uncomfortably and departed the booth with a carefully guarded expression that Talia was sure was hiding a mixture of insult and intimidation.

Still reclining lazily in the booth, the brunette began to laugh: a light, lilting sound that drew Changretta to her again like he had been magnetised. Pressing another kiss to the side of her face, he commanded in a voice that made Talia shiver yet again: "Tell me about the first time you ever came here."

"I was engaged here when I was very young," the seamstress revealed after hesitating for just a moment. "We'd grown up together, as children of immigrants do. He died in the Great War, though, so we never… " Talia trailed off, her face gone slack and her eyes unfocused, seeing right through Changretta and into the past.

"I've been married before." Luca declared gruffly as he sat up and away from Talia suddenly.

Talia's attention snapped back to the man in the booth, all memories of her long-lost fiancé abruptly dissipating.

"What… what happened?" The woman asked hesitantly, sitting up just as Luca had done. She was completely unsure just how much she could ask the American man to reveal of such a sensitive story.

Thankfully the pair were given a moment to breathe as the sullen waiter from earlier dropped off their bottles of champagne.

"She didn't think much of the vows we took at the altar," Luca said shortly, the expression on his face a pained one.

The man reached out and plucked the closest bottle of champagne from its ice bucket and began opening it methodically.

Talia watched the muscles in his hands flex under tattooed skin as he successfully pulled the cork and set about pouring two glasses.

"It wasn't in her nature to be loyal." He touched the tips of his long fingers to his chin as he placed the bottle back on the table, before flicking his fingers away in a violent gesture, as if banishing something, perhaps old memories, away entirely. "I divorced her."

"That sounds awful. I'm sorry." Divorce was rare where Talia lived, though not unheard of. Maybe the process was more common in America.

"It wasn't pleasant," Changretta agreed, as he passed the woman a glass of champagne with a grim smile that made something in Talia's heart lurch painfully. "And don't apologise, Talia." He put one hand to her knee and the other brushed the side of her face gently.

"How about, let's have no more talk of the past tonight, 'uh? Shall we dance some more?" The man gestured toward the big band still playing at the far end of the increasingly busy dance floor.

Talia let a smile arch her lips as she drank a little and asked: "Still not as good as New York?"

Shrugging over the rim of his own champagne glass, Changretta remarked, back to his usual wolfish self: "The company is certainly makin' up for it."


	5. Chapter 5

Luca’s hands gripped Talia’s waist as they danced, and she was grateful for it, as she was feeling the electrifying buzz of alcohol even more now the pair were up and dancing.

The music was jaunty and lively, the kind of big band music that could be found in any bar in New York and at a level that drowned almost all conversation on the dancefloor besides the few words able to be exchanged as dancing couples lingered close together.

Then, abruptly, the sound of frenzied shouting from somewhere off the dancefloor could be heard above the music.

The American man turned in the direction of the commotion, holding Talia behind him as his eyes narrowed. Changretta took in the sight of what looked like a brawl in one of the booths, catching the flash of a peaked cap and a bloodied fist as he did so. His stomach clenched, unbidden.

“ _Dobbiamo andarcene… adesso_ **(We need to leave… now)**.” Changretta turned back to his date.

“ _Che cosa…_ **(What is it…)**?” The brunette woman asked curiously, straining to see past her American date’s broad shoulders.

Intent on seeing the fight for herself, Talia was still looking in that direction when she let out an exclamation on seeing a pair of figures rapidly approaching Changretta from behind.

Moving like an automaton, the only thought in the petite woman’s slightly intoxicated mind being _protect Luca_ , she stepped around the American swiftly and shoved out at the two strangers with all her might.

“ _Mio Dio_ **(My God)** … ” the slighter man cursed, the only one of the approaching pair that had been met with enough force to stumble back a couple of steps.

The other man, however, kept advancing until he was right upon her, wasting no time in taking ahold of the brunette woman by the upper arms and shaking her forcefully. “ _Sei pazzo_ **(Are you crazy)**!?”

At this, Changretta, who had been equal puts stunned and enamoured by the woman’s decision to protect him, wrested Talia out of the other man’s grip and into his own.

Dimly, the English Italian woman began to realise that these two men were dressed similarly to Luca, but without his effortless flair, and deduced these two must be under his employ and had been detailed to tail them on their date that evening.

All three men began conversing rapidly in Italian that washed over Talia’s ears like a distant hum, unable to drown out the sheer amount of rage she was still feeling at having been so terrified just moments earlier.

“ _Vai a cagare_ **(Eat shit)**!” Talia shouted wildly at the other man from the safety of her date’s arms, adrenaline and alcohol both still coursing through her.

Witnessing Talia’s obvious distress, Changretta reached over his date’s trembling shoulders and gripped the man’s face who had shaken her, before opening his palm wide and slapping him resoundingly across the cheek. “ _L’hai spaventata, stupido_ **(You scared her, stupid)**!”

The slighter Italian man was the next to speak after several moments of glancing over his own shoulders back at the fight. He, too, could see several peaky caps involved in the melee.  “ _Andiamo_ **(Let’s go)**!”

* * *

 

“We’re being followed.” The brutish Italian man in the driver’s seat declared with a grimace, mere moments after the four had piled into an automobile that had been idling in the street outside the Baglioni.

His slighter companion glanced over his shoulder, past the twin shadows of his boss and the crazy English woman. There were headlights trailing them, but it could just be normal traffic. “Keep driving.”

Talia and Luca were sitting in tense silence in the back of the automobile. For some reason, Talia had felt as if she had disappointed or perhaps even angered the man beside her, all from the way he was sitting so stiffly in his seat and keeping so much space between them. After everything they’d been through tonight – the good and the bad – she just wanted him to reach over and touch her, _so badly_. Whatever it was that had come between them, she couldn’t bear it.

Luca finally addressed her in a sharp tone, under his breath so the men in the front wouldn't hear. “That was fuckin' stupid.”

“What are you – what are you talking about?” The seamstress asked incredulously.

“Stepping in front of me like that. I know you're a smart girl, Talia, but that was fuckin’ stupid, and you know it.”

“I – I just wanted to – ” The woman stammered out, a flush of anger and shame spreading across her cheeks.

“What? What did you fuckin’ want, uh?” The man asked huskily, closing the space between them and gripping her neck with one whole hand, his thumb jutting up uncomfortably into the soft underside of her chin. “To get _hurt_ because of me? Do you think that I would _thank_ you for that?”

“I – didn’t mean – ” Talia’s voice wavered, her own arms looping around her waist protectively, as if to comfort herself.

“Do you think I could _live_ with myself if anything happened to you, Talia Mangiameli?” With the tip of his thumb under her chin, Changretta angled her face up to his so their eyes met in the dim light of the backseat.

“Don’t you ever do anything like that again. _Promettimi_ **(Promise me)**.” He added forcefully, beetle-black eyes boring into hers almost painfully.

Weakly, the seamstress nodded, unable to say anything more before the man beside her leaned in and began kissing her with a sharpness that left her lips stinging.

At some point between the strong kisses, Changretta had produced the small blade he had offered her day he’d found her on the rainy sidewalk. Pressing it into her palm, he closed her fingers around it tightly.

“This is yours now.” He murmured, his breath hot against her skin. “If I can’t always be with you... at least I can protect you like this.”

“Why would you… ? Are you _safe_?” Talia desperately wanted to press the subject and ask a thousand more questions, but the seamstress knew he wouldn’t answer them.

“Not at all.” Luca shook his head slowly.

“Am I… safe?” She followed up her first question even more hesitantly.

“I’ll make sure of it.”

“They’re following us, boss.” One of the men remarked in the front seat: the light was so dim inside the automobile it made it impossible to tell who was speaking.

“We’re not going home?” Talia heard herself ask inanely, before instantly regretting it.

“If they’re following us, and we take you home, they’ll know exactly where to find your family. Is that something you want?” The brutish Italian man behind the wheel, recognisable by his derisive tone, demanded sourly.

His companion in the front seat clicked his tongue pointedly. “Boss doesn’t want you to scare her.”

“Drive.” Changretta snapped, directing both men’s attention back to the night-time city street unfolding in front of them. “We’ll figure it out. _Siamo Italiani… sopportiamo_ **(We’re Italian… we endure)**.”

Talia’s hand crept into Luca’s in the backseat and felt a rush of the usual giddiness when his fingers intertwined with hers readily. Whatever happened next, she knew that despite what the American man had made her promise just moments earlier, she would, of course, protect him.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies this took forever to be updated - being an adult occupies 99% of my time these days. Good news is, I'm already writing the next chapter.

A plan was swiftly being put together by the three men in Changretta’s vehicle as it sped along, matched mile for mile by the car tailing it. Talia Mangiameli, silent and motionless as a stone in her evening gown, watched the vehicle behind them in the driver’s side mirror unblinkingly.

The woman’s attention was brought back to the conversation at hand when her date squeezed her knee sharply and she met his piercing look. _Ascoltare_ **(listen)** , he mouthed at her soundlessly, before turning back to the two men in the front of the vehicle.

“We need to make this turnaround as tight as possible,” Luca was saying authoritatively. “Keep it quick. No fire unless we feel it first.”

The man behind the wheel snorted disapprovingly. Changretta reached forward and gripped the driver’s chin sharply in his hand. “ _Fallo bene_ **(do it right)**.” The order was iron.

The hawkish man fell back against the seat beside Talia and put an arm around her shoulders, drawing her close. “Matteo has a car waiting outside the train station for someone we’re expecting later tonight,” Changretta imparted coolly and efficiently, “the plan is, we’re going to put you in it instead.”  

Talia was silent, her hands twisting around each other in her lap.

“Whoever’s tailing us likely means us harm,” the black-haired man continued. “An’ a public place is the only deterrent we can offer.”

“Deterrent?” The seamstress repeated hollowly.

“I know this look on your face, Talia. I’ve seen it before.” Luca put a single, lithe finger under the woman’s chin and raised her face up to his. “ _Questa_ _è la mia vita, della mia famiglia_. _Dopo stasera, devi scegliere_ ( **This is my life, my family’s life**. **After tonight, you need to choose** ).”

* * *

 

 

In no time at all, the train station was in view: brightly lit and bustling with people, even at this time of night. The atmosphere inside the car was tense.

“We’ll be right next to Matteo’s automobile. The only thing you need to do is step from this vehicle to the next. _Capisce_ **(understand)**?” Changretta asked of her brusquely, leaning forward on his haunches once more.

“ _Si_ **(yes)**.”

The vehicle motored alongside the station for a few more metres, travellers and conductors milling about on the adjacent platforms. Suddenly, the driver barked: “ _Adesso!_ **(now!)** ”

With no further prompting, Talia opened the vehicle door closest to her and stepped out. The cool night air hit her like a sledgehammer. The young woman had a distinct feeling of, over the course of the last few hours, being transformed into something not unlike a fully motorised automaton, or an actor in a stage play. She was no longer herself. She was something entirely new.

The brunette’s keen eyes darted to the side: at first glance, the car that had been trailing them so closely appeared to have fallen behind by about fifty metres and was idling with its lights still on.

With a flurry of slamming doors, the seamstress’ attention was jerked back to her immediate surroundings as Luca and the other men exited the car in a billowing of trench coats and jauntily perched hats. The lights of the idling car switched off abruptly.

Changretta saw the momentarily confused expression on Talia’s face and realised she hadn’t been expecting this kind of cover: she had expected to move unflanked from one car to the other. The American man let out a low growl, waving a tattooed hand at his man closest to Talia to keep her moving toward the vehicle where Matteo sat waiting at the wheel. _As if he would have let her be exposed for even a single second._

* * *

 

 

Two sharpishly suited men paused as they passed each other on the stairwell landing of their hotel.

“She’s back where she belongs.”

“ _Scusami_ **(excuse me)**?” Changretta, still volatile and on edge from the night’s events, snapped at Matteo’s choice of words.

Matteo clenched his jaw and struggled to compose himself. He had been pulled too many ways tonight to be too greatly concerned with placating his boss’ irrational temper. “Talia is back with her family, and your mother is waiting for you in the suite next to yours, Luca. I picked her up from the train station on my way back from Mangiameli’s.”

“ _Grazie_ **(thankyou)**.” Pausing, Luca clapped Matteo on the shoulder appreciatively. “Get some rest.”

Matteo inclined his head slightly at his boss, before watching the tall, hawkish man turn on his heels and retreat back upstairs.

Matteo had ran with the Changretta family long enough to know that it would be a long time before the ramifications of tonight would stop being felt: between Talia Mangiameli’s overwhelming introduction to the gangster lifestyle and Audrey Changretta’s imminent arrival from New York, Luca Changretta was about to be faced with a whole of host of competing challenges.


	7. Chapter 7

"Luca." Audrey Changretta, a petite woman, bordering on frailty and of an indeterminate age between fifty and sixty, took to her feet as her tall, black-haired son entered her hotel suite. "I'm glad to see you."

"As I am to see you, mama." Hugs and kisses were exchanged.

Audrey touched a hand lovingly to the side of her son's lean, angular face. The man leaned into his mother's touch affectionately. _Oh, how she loved this boy_.

"I've missed your guidance." Her son confessed.

Audrey smiled wanly. "Well, you will miss it no more, my son."

"There's a lot I've wanted to discuss with you, mama. These Shelbys are... _spregevole_ **(despicable)**."

" _Te l'avevo dette, no_ **(I told you, no)**?"

Luca watched his mother's eyes unfocus and drift over his shoulder, staring at nothing. Her lips drew down at the corners and her son knew she was caught in memories of his father and brother. Saying nothing, Luca took her hands gently and kissed them. Some memories had no hope of fading.

"Your father, your brother." Audrey paused and let out an audible shudder of grief. "They've both been taken from me. The only thing I have left in this world to love is you, Luca. Don't deprive me of that."

Her son gave her a stupefied look.

Audrey Changretta angled her head knowingly.

"Matteo told me about the girl, Luca."

Standing up slowly and letting out a beleaguered sigh, Luca cursed under his breath. " _Sporco traditore_ **(filthy traitor)**."

"You have been taking risks for a girl that you barely know." The Changretta matriarch accused her only living son.

Letting out a single, brusque laugh, Luca raised his hands in the air a little from where he had placed them on the cavernous fireplace mantle. This act was a silent plea to an unseen deity. "My life is my own, mama."

" _La tua vita è della tua famiglia, mio figlio_ **(Your life is your family's, my son)**." The woman's expression was steely. "Don't be tempted to lose sight of what we are here to do."

Luca met her gaze, resolute. "Never."

Resolute about what exactly, Audrey Changretta could not quite tell.

* * *

 

The following day, Talia Mangiameli gave a start of surprise. Someone had appeared in her workroom without so much as a squeak of a floorboard.

"Don't stop what you're doing, Ms. Mangiameli. I don't mean to distract you from your work." The distinctly Italian woman waved a hand placatingly as Talia made to get up from her workbench hurriedly. "My name is Changretta. Audrey Changretta."

The younger woman's breath caught in her throat.

"I believe you… _know_ … my son."

Talia nodded, her lips pursed shut. The brunette reluctantly returned her attention to the piece she was working on, remaining hyper aware of the other woman's presence.

"You know what he is, Talia?" This followed a tense minute of the older woman walking slowly around Talia's workspace, sweeping her hawk-like gaze over every inch of the room.

"I only know as much as he will tell me, and what I have been permitted to see." The English Italian woman answered honestly, her thoughts still full of the car chase from the Baglioni last night.

The older woman's eyes were piercing. "What do your parents think?" Audrey Changretta's next question as she lowered herself into the armchair usually reserved for Talia's mother. "I met your father downstairs. He seems… _obliging_." The last word rang out with a slightly disparaging tone.

Skin prickling a little at this veiled insult, the seamstress forced herself to speak evenly. "My father is impressed with Luca's money. My mother thinks him tall and handsome." There was a pause, before the seamstress added grimly: "My brother doesn't like him at all."

A knowing smirk pulled upwards at the corner's of the older woman's mouth. "Brothers never do." Leaning back into the plush armchair, Audrey's piercing eyes stayed trained on the petite woman in front of her. "And I suspect if your parents knew even a fraction of the truth, they would not be so welcoming."

Finally, the seamstress took to her feet. This was her workroom, after all. "What brings you here, Mrs. Changretta?"

"To figure out exactly what it is about you that has been distracting my son to the point of disaster."

Fighting back a heady flush, Talia retorted defiantly: "Your son is too capable to be part of any kind of disaster."

Smiling grimly at this, Audrey replied just as crisply: "Yet, I have been summoned back to this godforsaken country to ensure that family vengeance is not being forgotten in lieu of a pretty pair of legs."

"Family… vengeance?" Talia repeated, genuinely bewildered. She had been labouring under the impression that Luca's business, however dangerous, was simply that… just business.

Audrey's thin lips pressed into a self-satisfied smirk. _He hadn't told her_. "At least some things remain sacred in my son's eyes."

The Italian woman waved a hand at the seamstress, beckoning her forward.

Almost unbidden, Talia moved as if drawn by a magnet, her fingers scraping the inside of her palms anxiously.

Audrey's claw-like hand came to rest on the brunette's shoulder. "Let me give you some advice, _bambolina_ **(little girl)**."

"I loved Luca's father, and this life took him from me. _Glielo assicuro_ **(I promise you)**... if you chose to love my son, marry him, give me grandchildren… " the older woman trailed off, her expression almost wistful, before hardening once more. "You will suffer, just as I have. There is no other ending to your story if you chose him."

Talia had to force back a sharp rise of bile at this point.

"Suffering is what the women who choose this life, choose these men, are left with," Audrey Changretta continued.   "This is what we deserve for loving such men."

A pregnant pause, then: "I implore you, Ms. Mangiameli, spare yourself. Forget my son. Forget all of this. You and your family will be better off for it."

By the time Talia had been able to refocus her scattered, alarmist thoughts, she was completely alone. Just as quickly as she had appeared, Audrey Changretta had left.

The seamstress was overcome with the distinct feeling that she had just submitted to a beating, thought it was of the kind that would leave no visible bruising.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, apologies to all that this took me literal months to update. Hope you enjoy the final chapter of this story.

Torrential rain had been pelting the windows all day long, and Talia knew, without even having to glance outside, that the muddy streets would be close to flooding.

The seamstress stood up from her work bench, a line of questioning already springing to mind as she lowered herself beside her mother's armchair, close to the fire.

"What is it, _mi cara_ **(my dear)**?" Talia's mother murmured as she sensed her daughter hovering close. It had been a good enough day, despite the rain, that Talia's ailing mother had been able to join her in the workroom.

"Mama, how did you and Da meet?" The petite woman shifted her weight slightly so she was sitting comfortably.

Her mother's face, however beleaguered from persistent sickness, smiled beatifically at the thought. "We meet at school, in Turin. We were just children, but I knew as soon as I saw him, he was _mi marito_ **(my husband)**."

The seamstress' chest grew warm at the look on her mother's face.

"As we grew older, our parents didn't want us to marry. When we realised I was pregnant with _you_ \- "  Talia squirmed, grinning, as her mother reached down to pinch her arm playfully. "We married in secret and fled Turin."

Talia frowned then, thinking of all the lavish gifts she and Michael had received over the years from both sets of grandparents. "But... the families have forgiven you and Da now?"

" _Forgiven_ may be too strong a word, Talia. Both families are just relieved the scandal is half a world away." Talia's mother shook her head with a sadness that made the warmth in Talia's chest morph into a cold ache.

"Have you ever regretted it?" The daughter asked then, her voice suddenly wavering. "Leaving your family?"

"Not for a moment." The seamstress' mother said firmly, reaching down and brushing her fingertips across her daughter's cheek. "Not for a second. _S_ _tato difficile in un primo momento_ **(it was hard at first)** , but I had your father. I had you."

"And Michael."

Her mother scrunched up her nose in mock distaste for a second before agreeing. "Michael, too."

Talia's laugh mixed strangely with a barely concealed sob.

Strongly suspecting that her daughter's distress had to do with the mysterious American man that had suddenly entered her life, her mother continued in earnest. "The most important thing is that I knew it was the right choice to make for _myself_. In my heart, I knew."

The two women gripped hands in silence for a moment.

"Do you know, Talia? In your heart, that he is the right choice?"

" _Non lo so_ **(I don't know)** , Mama." Yet another sob shuddered through Talia.

Her mother leaned forward and smiled, thumbing away her daughter's tears gently. "I think you do, _mi cara_ , or you would not be crying so."

* * *

 

 " _Quindi vai in pace e serv il nostre Dio_ **(Go in peace to love and serve the Lord)**."

"Amen." As the Sunday morning church service ended, a chorus of voices filled the arches of the centuries old structure.

Talia Mangiameli stepped out of the pew and waited to take her father's arm. The seamstress' mother had remained at home in a fragile state, and her absence weighed heavily on both of their minds.

As the Mangiameli family filed out of the church and into the crisp English sunshine (the rain having miraculously cleared overnight), Talia's brother moved away quickly to seek out his young fiancée, Giulia.

Talia caught her father's eye looking after her brother and she squeezed his hand tightly. Her father patted her hand warmly and greeted the priest, Father Vincent, as he approached them with a kind smile. The three fell into easy conversation, before a low voice spoke in Taliaâ€™s ear. "Talia, _ti prego_ , _vieni con me_ **(please, come with me)**."

Luca tipped his hat at Talia's father and the priest in quick succession and repeated his question, asking in his suave American way for a moment alone with Miss Mangiameli. The young woman felt her father squeeze her hand beguilingly as he and Luca exchanged subtle glances.

 _Mio Dio_ **(My God)** , Talia thought desperately, _Mama has told Da, and Da has sought out Luca on purpose._

* * *

 

 

Glancing over at the American as they walked side by side, Talia was taken aback by how dark the circles under his eyes had become in the few days they had spent apart. Despite this, the seamstress remained stubbornly tight lipped, refusing to be the first to break the palpable silence that had fallen.

Soon, the pair had found their way into the church's secluded cloister garden, a meticulously trimmed circular of hedge and thorny roses.

"Is your mother with you?" Talia finally decided to ask, unable to keep the anger out of her voice. That Luca hadn't sought her out to forewarn that Audrey Changretta would appear in her workroom to confront her was still a very fresh wound.

"She is in My Lady's chapel, praying for my dead father and dead brother." Luca remarked bitterly, his American drawl making it sound as if he was vaguely amused at the thought. "Talia, I didn't know she would approach you so directly, _giuro che_ **(I swear)**."

"And _I_ didn't know my father would tell you where we spent our Sunday mornings, otherwise I would have stayed home with Mama." The seamstress replied tersely, unmoved by the man's explanation.

The pair stared at each other unwaveringly for a moment, Luca's hawkish gaze matched evenly by Talia's owlish stare.

"Tell me what my mother said." The Italian American man insisted next.

"You already know, Luca." Talia shook her head, rebuffing his request.

" _Tell me_." He repeated commandingly.

The brunette angled her head as she was prone to doing, before relenting suddenly and declaring: "I was told about the _family business_ , Luca. I was told in no uncertain terms that I shouldn't even entertain the idea of you, for the pain it will bring me. _E_ _vero_ **(is that true)** , Luca? Will it only be pain?" Her voice cracked audibly and she paced away from him suddenly, overcome with emotion.

Wordlessly, the Italian American pulled the woman back by the crook of her elbow - one step, then two - until her back was pressed against his chest, the other arm looped about her waist.

"I don't begrudge my mother for telling you those things, Talia I only regret how she has done it. As for _pain_ ," the man whispered, his frame towering over hers, enveloping her completely from behind. "The family business is _vengeance_ , Talia, and yes, it will be painful. There is no more reason not to tell you that I am here to destroy a family by the name of Shelby."

The seamstress began shaking, like she was standing in the pouring rain instead of a warm embrace.

"The Shelbys murdered my father and my brother, and I will not leave this place until they are all included alongside my kin in my mother's Sunday prayers."

The pair remained motionless where they were, wrapped up in each other for a few more moments.

" _Che ne dici_ **(what do you say)**?" Changretta's lips lingered by her ear.

" _Non capisci_ **(can't you see)**?" Talia replied, voice still unsteady. "Can't you see you've made me something else? I don't - " she shuddered violently in his arms - "I don't know who I am anymore. I don't know what to say."

Changretta's only response was to pull her around so they were face-to-face. He pressed his lips to her forehead, then each of her cheeks in turn, a silent blessing of some description. "Talia Mangiameli, I know exactly who you are." Next, he kissed her lips firmly - the kind of decisive, finite action, that caused all trembling to still completely.

"And I know who you'll be." Without hesitation, the American man produced a ring from his inner suit pocket.

For what felt like the fourth time that day, the seamstress' breath seemed to escape her entirely.

"Do you want to see the world with me, Talia?" Changretta continued calmly, the usual American swagger returned in droves now he had revealed his true intentions.

"Yes." She allowed him to slip the ring onto her finger in one smooth motion. "Only with you."

"Then when the family business is done, we'll go. We'll marry in Firenze, just you and me."

The seamstress shook her head slowly at this, thoughts of her mother and the Mangiameli's own version of "family business" causing her to disagree with Luca's suggestion. "Let's marry in Turin. There's Mangiameli _family business_ to be settled there when we do."

" _Perfetto_ **(perfect)**."

Luca Changretta bared his teeth wolfishly in approval, and Talia was flooded with heady feeling - despite the vengeance, despite all the pain yet to come - he was still, and always would be, every inch the hawkish, mysterious man she had first encountered as a barefoot, wide-eyed seamstress.

* * *

* * *

 


End file.
